


Ruined

by Too_Oldforthisstuff



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Missing Scene, TEH
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-30
Updated: 2014-03-30
Packaged: 2018-01-17 12:37:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1387921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Too_Oldforthisstuff/pseuds/Too_Oldforthisstuff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's thoughts as he watches John and Mary drive away the night of his "Big Reveal"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ruined

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote the bulk of this just after watching The Empty Hearse. I decided it was too OOC and shelved it. After watching the remainder of season three and seeing the young Sherlock in His Last Vow I took it out again and this is the result. Not Betaed. All mistakes are my own.

Sherlock watched the cab drive past and dabbed at his bleeding nose. A look of confusion was replaced by the placid stare that accompanied a trip to his mind palace.

Sherlock was different. He knew it. He didn’t understand it. He hated when he didn’t understand. 

Oh, he understood lots of things, multitudes of things, so many things his method of sorting and filing information had expanded from a room to a house to a mansion to a palace. It was a vast and sprawling edifice with annex after annex, wing after wing related to every subject that he had found to be important to The Work. He’d labored long and hard under Mycroft’s tutelage to perfect his convoluted Memory Palace. 

In a tiny lumber room in the sub basement of his palace Sherlock stashed all the things he knew about sentiment. Not the sort of sentiment that related to criminal endeavors, things like jealousy, greed, or revenge. Those emotions had rooms of their own in the west wing. But the things in his own life; love, hurt, shame, confusion, those things, and all the times he hadn’t known how to cope with his own overwhelming feelings. Those he kept in that hidden space because he couldn’t bring himself to delete them, and suspected that he shouldn’t, no matter what Mycroft said. 

He did care about some things. Some things caused more good feelings than bad. Those things, those memories he kept carefully hidden away most of the time, but occasionally, when he was alone, when he was in a situation he’d found himself unable to face solely with intellect, when he was at his wit’s end and needed comfort, he went to that small space and sorted through his good files, not the bad ones. He took out all the times he’d been truly happy. Times filled with laughter and the warmth of friendship and carefree joy. Times when he had felt accepted, not for his intellect, but for himself alone, just as he was. 

There weren’t that many, but they were cherished. 

Red Beard was one such memory. He had loved that animal with the same unreserved devotion that the dog had reciprocated a hundred fold. Red Beard had been there for him as long as he could remember, a constant in his ever-changing world. Red Beard was always ready to share his adventures, eager to please and full of affection for him when no one else was. The big red dog gave him all the attention that he craved and couldn’t get from people.

Losing him had been unbearable.

If he wanted to relive that idyllic time when Red Beard was his best and only friend he wouldn’t look at the final entries in the file. He wouldn’t revisit the heartbreak of Red Beard’s leaving. No not leaving, being taken a way, and not to the farm to live happily ever after, but to the vets to be put down. 

Mycroft had tried to explain. His brother had been the one to tell him the truth. He said it was better to face facts and not allow yourself to care. It was not an advantage to care because caring always led to pain. Sherlock hadn’t understood, that young, that there were, perhaps, things worse than death. He had only understood that his parents had lied to him, had taken his friend and left him all alone.

Then Mycroft deserted him for school. 

Mycroft was brilliant. He didn’t need school. He needed to stay with Sherlock and help him understand the mysterious doings of ordinary people. Sherlock had hated that he was all alone, that Mycroft was far away and not in the next bedroom to answer questions, even if he gave the impression that Sherlock was stupid for having to ask them. He was the font of all wisdom in Sherlock’s eyes and if it meant having to endure a bit of ridicule, well, the knowledge was worth it.

Mycroft had said that caring was not an advantage. It did not occur to Sherlock until decades later that Mycroft’s attitude might have been born of a similar situation. That he too had been dealt an almost mortal blow and chose to wall himself off from the resulting traumatic hurt by refusing to acknowledge it. Sherlock didn’t know that he had unwittingly followed in the elder boy’s footsteps. Mycroft had been his guide. Mycroft was smart, smarter than Sherlock no matter how hard he tried to, if not outshine then at least, impress his older brother with his abilities. 

With time Sherlock had come to believe, as Mycroft apparently did, he would be better off alone. Alone protected him. There had been a few instances when he had slipped and let someone into his world. It had always ended badly. Sherlock had always ruined it somehow. He never understood what he had done. 

Except for John, wonderful John, marvelously ordinary John, who was constantly amazed by Sherlock’s unique abilities. He was careful not to let John know that Mycroft was easily able to outshine him. 

John in his cuddly jumpers and with his illegal gun, ready to follow him to the ends of the earth, his admiration never ceasing even in the face of Sherlock’s multiple failures to act in an appropriate friend-related manner. John, who was his illuminating guide in all matters of acceptable behavior, even if Sherlock chose to ignore his guidance more often than not. 

Now he had ruined it all again. John had gone off with Mary in the cab. He wasn’t happy that Sherlock came back. He had moved on with his life and now Sherlock had no place in it. He had hurt John. He hadn’t meant it. He had heard John ask him not to be dead. He had had his good memories of John in the lumber room to help him through the worst times. Mycroft had been right again. Mycroft was always right and Sherlock was stupid and no good and he had lost his touchstone, his friend, his John. 

He had his memories, but John was not dead like Red Beard. John was alive and angry and it was too much to take in. Why was he not happy that Sherlock was back? That they could live together at Baker Street again, with Mrs. Hudson down stairs to bring scones and biscuits and give hugs, and they could chase off down the stairs when the game was on?

Mary had said she would talk him around. Could she? Maybe. Maybe she could and he could at least have John for part of the time. Would that be possible? Could he wait? Could he try not to let this be the end, exercise a bit of patience and trust this woman, John’s Mary? 

He turned to his right and set off down the pavement toward Baker Street.


End file.
